The Broken Boy
by Kathy Heart
Summary: Starting when they were teenagers, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes became fast friends. The story of them growing up in a series of One-shots TW: Self Harm, Bullying
1. Part 1

Sherlock Holmes sat on the bleachers. The abandoned football field stretched before him. He sighed deeply. The notebook on his lap was empty.

Alone, he felt a sort of emptiness. His black eye was not fading, and his split lip had started bleeding during fourth bell, much to the derision of his classmates.

"Idiots" he mumbled to himself, and winced as his lip cracked. He stood with a deep sigh, and walked off toward home. He was halfway there when he heard a voice behind him.

"OI! Freak!"

He recognized the voice and paused. He turned to face Sally Donovan, a cheerleader wannabe who was always at the bottom of the football field. She was accompanied by a boy whom Sherlock knew only by his last name, printed on the back of his football jersey: Anderson. There was a group of boys with them, their letter jackets announcing accomplishments and rich parents.

Sherlock knew what was coming. It was expected, not an unusual occurrence. He noted the details of their face, trying to think of some scathing comments to make. He noted briefly that one of the older boys, a senior named Greg something, was standing in the back. He looked slightly uncomfortable, regretful. His eyes apologized.

Sherlock stood his ground as the boys approached. It had rained the night before. They formed a ring around Sherlock, laughing, prodding at him, shoving him from person to person. Sherlock remained stiff until the blow came, hard to the middle of his spine. He staggered forward, splattering into the mud. He could feel the bruise forming already. He tried to get to his feet, but felt a foot kick him hard in the abdomen. He could hear Sally jeering "Freak! Freak!"

Sherlock shook his head, trying to stand again. He was half upright when a rock struck his cheek. He fell on his side. Spattered in mud, he let himself go limp. He'd never begged for mercy. He wasn't about to start now. The kicking came.

They kicked him again and again. It was worse than usual, and Sherlock became certain that they did not know that they were killing him, not physically, but mentally. The scars on his wrists proved it, the antidepressants he refused to take, unopened in the medicine cabinet.

Then he heard another voice, a strong voice ringing out "OI! Get back, the lot of you, GET BACK!"

Miraculously, the kicking stopped. Sherlock lay, half curled in a fetal position. Sherlock looked with blurred eyes at the scene unfolding before him.

There were six guys and Sally, all staring disbelievingly at a short teenager striding toward them. Sally screeched with laughter, and the voice rang out "Alright hyena, that's quite enough. All of you, go back where you came from GO ON! GET. OUT."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, he wanted to say "Let them kill me…let it be over…" but words would not come, and he knew that this boy was going to get it just as bad.

The football players glared at him, but something in the eyes of the newcomer warned them back. They turned to leave, filing past Sherlock, spitting on him as they want, each repeating a word.

"Freak."

" Freak."

" Freak"

When they were gone, the other boy hurried forward, kneeling beside Sherlock, helping him sit up.

"Aw hell…" he muttered "Are you alright"

Sherlock laughed softly, his mouth bloody.

"Yea, sorry, stupid question" muttered the newcomer.

"John Watson. C'mon, my house is just around the block. I'll get you cleaned up."

He helped Sherlock up, half supporting him as he took him to his house.

He allowed Sherlock to wash the muck off in his shower, and went to get him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, so that he didn't have to wear his muddy clothes home. When Sherlock was dressed, he emerged, his clean hair a mess. He had a few more bruises and contusions, which john treated with rubbing alcohol and bandages.

While checking a bruise on his arm, he noted the scars, some old, some fresh. He looked up at Sherlock, who had been silent, determinedly avoiding his gaze. John took a deep breath.

"They aren't worth your pain" He said, his voice firm. Sherlock felt tears welling in his blue eyes. He did not attempt to stem them as he slid down his cheeks.

"I just want it to stop" he said brokenly

John gripped his hand, and gently wrapped a bandage around each wrist.

"It stops now. It stops here. They can try to tear you down, but I swear to you, Sherlock, there will never come a time when I won't build you up again"


	2. Part 2

Sherlock Holmes walked home, his hands jammed into the pockets of his black hoodie, his eyes down, his books tucked under one arm. His black hair was ruffled by the crisp autumn air.

Behind him, at school, John Watson was looking for his friend. They had only been friends a few weeks, but the boys rubbed along well, and John found himself caring greatly for the well being of his friend. Both boys had parents who worked from 12 in the afternoon to 12 at night, so their homes were unoccupied for quite some time after school. They often hung out and talked. John would laugh at the amusing little facts Sherlock revealed about their classmates. But there was always something brooding about Sherlock. He looked sad when he thought John couldn't see.

But not today. today Sherlock seemed to have left without him. He was about halfway toward the bus when he heard someone laughing about what someone had written on Sherlock's locker.

John walked back into the building, seeking out Sherlock's locker, until he found it, the graffiti scribbled there, black and stark against the sickly tan metal.

**_KILL YOURSELF FREAK_**

John shook his head "Shit"

He sprinted away, ignoring the buses, beating the path to Sherlock's house.

Sherlock sat in his bathroom, sitting on the floor. The dismantled bits of shaving razor were spread across the ground in front of him. His fingers were cut from prizing the blade out of the piece of plastic that made it safe. His shaking right hand held it over the scars, some old some new, on his left wrist.

He shook violently.

A tear streaked down his cheek.

John Watson ran to Sherlock's front door, and pounded on it "Sherlock? _Sherlock? __**SHERLOCK?"**_

Kneeling alone in the stark bathroom light, Sherlock looked down at his shaking hand.

John muttered "Screw this", tried the handle, found it was locked, and kicked down the door. He ran straight into the house. "SHERLOCK"

He saw the bathroom door and pounded on it "Sherlock open the door…Open the door Sherlock"

Sherlock's bluegreen eyes were filled with tears, but his voice was quite steady.

"Go away John"

"Don't listen to them Sherlock, please don't listen to them they aren't worth it you KNOW that"

"John please…"

"SHERLOCK! It doesn't matter what they think! We're friends yeah?"

"Yeah…"

"Why would I lie to you? Come on Sherlock…just open the door."

The lock clicked.

John swung the door open, and immediately fell to his knees beside his friend. He eased the razor out of his hand and threw it across the room. He pulled Sherlock Holmes into his strong arms and murmured softly

"Sherlock I'm here…I'm always here…I'm never letting you go"

Sherlock Holmes cried into his friends shoulder…and believed him.


	3. Part 3

Sherlock Holmes sat in his 8th bell class, tapping his long pale fingers impatiently on his desk, much to the annoyance of Sally Donovan, who sat in the row next to him. The teacher's voice droned on and on, until at last, that blessed screeching bell rang out. Sherlock scooped up his books and bolted for the door before Donovan could team up with Anderson to taunt him.

He was grateful that Greg Lestrade had graduated after his freshman year. Although he had once felt hatred for Lestrade, who was one of his tormentors, he had deduced even then that Greg chose to bully him to stop from being bullied.

Sherlock realized that Greg probably had old scars to match his own, and thus did not challenge him.

Thinking of the scars made Sherlock anxious to see his friend of two years, a short individual with dirty blond hair that consistently appeared ruffled. They had met freshman year, and since that day, John Watson had saved Sherlock's life at least twice.

Sherlock waited at the south corner of the building, leaning against the crumbling brick, prodding at a little spider that had crawled onto his arm. He looked around, scooped it off himself, and deposited it on a tree trunk. He smiled, satisfied, as it crawled away, but turned suddenly at a voice behind him.

"You're a big softie, you know that?"

He looked perplexedly at John, who was grinning, and said "Hardly. I merely…admire…um…the tenacity of spiders."

His tone was dignified, and John snorted "Come on Sherlock. I texted the pizza place, they'll have it at my house within the next 15 minutes, so we'd better hurry"

Sherlock looked at him anxiously "And you didn't order…"

"Olives, Sherlock. I know you don't like olives, of course I didn't get them"

John shook his head as his companion looked straight ahead, walking quickly. They were keen to avoid a fuss, and behind them, the fuss had just emerged from the school doors. Unfortunately, Anderson and Donovan's gang took the same route to the park that was John and Sherlock's way home. The two boys lapsed into a tense silence as they moved at a pace that was nearly a jog to avoid the group of rowdy, cruel teenagers.

It was with much relief that they turned onto John's street.

They enjoyed pizza and a movie at John's house that night. His sister Harry in college and his parents on a business trip meant they had the house to themselves.

As Sherlock left that night, he felt a rush of disappointment. For some time, he had had a feeling that he should act on his emotions, this tug in his chest whenever he saw the boyish face of John Watson. He shook his head, running his fingers through his thick black hair, and walked home.

The days passed in a similar way over the course of junior year, until the last day of school. The two boys elected not to go to parties, but to celebrate by themselves. When Sherlock questioned John about their plans for that night, John smiled craftily "Come on, it's a surprise"

He led Sherlock to his car, politely opening the passenger door for him. Sherlock climbed in, bemused, and John shut the door and scooched into the driver's seat.

He had just prepared to start the car when he noticed Sherlock rubbing at his left wrist with his right hand. John sighed, reaching over and taking Sherlock's hands, grasping them in his own.

"It's alright" he said, his voice soft and soothing. Sherlock took a deep breath, nodded, and managed a smile.

"Alright, take me to this bloody surprise"

For once he found himself unable to deduce where they were going. His mind was running on jet fuel as he sought out the proper words to express himself…and yet he felt no word invented adequately described how he felt about John, so he held his tongue.

They pulled into a little Italian restaurant that had a back porch with a perfect view of the clear sky. Sherlock sat across from his friend. They ordered drinks and food, and when the check came and Sherlock reached for his wallet, John shook his head and paid instead.

And then it occurred to Sherlock.

They were on a date.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and decided to try and experiment. As they left the restaurant, he slipped his hand out of his pocket, and took John's. John did not protest in the slightest, and they walked along the sidewalk, hand in hand, both smiling and faintly red.

John cleared his throat and said "Come on, we're going a bit farther than this."

They went past John's car, and crossed the street, all the while holding hands. They spent the remainder of the daylit hours walking through the park and sitting in a little gazebo, just talking, sometimes quietly contemplating their surroundings.

Sherlock occasionally caught John looking at him, and vice versa.

It was bliss.

They made their way back toward John's car, and he opened the side door again, allowing Sherlock to get in before closing the door, going around to the driver's side, and pulling away.

John walked him to his front door, and they stood for a moment, saying nothing. Sherlock looked at his feet, unsure what to say or do. This was new territory for him; uncharted waters stretched ahead.

And then he felt a light touch as John Watson's fingertips pressed against his cheek, tilting it so that the boys looked right at each other.

They kissed.

Without knowing who had moved first, without knowing or caring, they were kissing and it was bliss and joy and nothing had ever felt better, and Sherlock forgot. He forgot the scars on his wrists, and Donovan and Anderson. He forgot everything but John Watson, the boy who was wrapped in his arms, and he did not want to let him go.

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock smiled, flushed. John was crimson. "Alright…well…goodnight" said John, turning away. Sherlock smiled, and entered his home, full of a new happiness that could not be extinguished by mud or abuse, and that light blasted away the pain and sadness he had felt before he met John Watson.

They passed the summer in bliss and enjoyment, together and loving it.

But the first day of senior year was torture.

People whispered and laughed as Sherlock walked in. He sought his friend but could not find him at his locker or their usual bench. Then he heard a sharp voice. "OI! Freak! Shoulda been calling you something else all these years. You and that fag John Watson are through here, you understand? Pack your bags and get out."

Laughter rang through the halls. At first he walked, but quickly he ran as people snatched at his clothes, throwing paper and pencils and anything that came to hand. He burst out of the building at the end of the day and sprinted toward John's house

"John!" he pounded on the door "JOHN!"

It swung open. A tall, austere looking woman stood before him, her cold eyes narrowed. "Sherlock Holmes, I take it? The one who turned my son to sin?"

"SHUT UP!" came a voice from within the house, and the woman was pushed back. John came striding out, a bag over his arm, presumably packed with clothes.

John's mother hissed "_WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"_

"I'm leaving, I'm out, I'm tired of you not accepting me, of you pushing at me to be the son YOU want me to be instead of the person I am, I'M SICK OF IT!" shouted John. "I'm 18, and you can't stop me. So goodbye Mother"

He grabbed Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock followed him. "You can come stay at my place" he said, soothingly. "My Mother won't care. Come on john, it's alright"

Senior year was difficult, but John and Sherlock found themselves newly and wonderfully impervious to the hatred of fellow students, thoroughly enjoying each other's company, and kissing between classes.

At the end of the day they helped each other get gum and spitballs off their clothes and hair, and then sat laughing and watching stupid movies.

And as senior year drew to a close, Sherlock found himself wondering what was next for them. John was choosing life as an army doctor, while Sherlock was off to University soon.

The day that John was deployed, the two boys went to the airport together.

Sherlock kissed John goodbye, and they stood there a moment, just holding each other, ignoring the stares of other travelers, simply enjoying the feeling of each other's company one last time.

Then, as they broke apart, Sherlock murmured "I'll wait John Watson. I'll wait the rest of my life for you if I have to. But I promise….I'll wait."

They kissed one last time, and then John turned, blinking back tears, and boarded his flight, leaving Sherlock Holmes alone again.


	4. Part 4

2 years ago, Sherlock Holmes said yes.

John had returned 3 years after he had left Sherlock, and had moved in with him in a little flat near Sherlock's University. They had lived together happily for about 6 months before John Watson had dragged him into their car, and told him to be patient, that their destination was a surprise.

He had taken Sherlock to the littler Italian restaurant that had been their first date.

They had walked to the gazebo, and John had gotten down on one knee, and asked Sherlock to stay.

Forever.

And Sherlock had said

"Yes…

"obviously"

They had been married a year ago today, and the pair had never been happier.

Sherlock was Sherlock, although his cutting wit was always softened when speaking to John.

The scars on his wrists had long since faded, and their little flat was a bit messy, but perfect for the pair.

One day, Sherlock was laying on his back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, with his feet in John's lap.

Sherlock spoke suddenly.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"What do you think of children?"

John looked up, surprised "You want…kids?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Yes" said Sherlock, after a moment's hesitation. "Yes, I'm quite sure it would be good to have a child to care for and bond with and-"

"Sher, shut up" laughed John "We'll go to Mother Mercy's tomorrow"

Sherlock smiled, and closed his eyes.

The next day, Sherlock walked into Mother Mercy's Children's Home, hand in hand with John Watson.

John stepped forward, leaving Sherlock standing stiffly behind. John spoke with the secretary for a moment, and the secretary called out a matronly looking nun, who gestured Sherlock and John to a door off to the side.

They walked through, and were confronted by a group of plainly dressed but well cared for kids. They were laughing and playing. John smiled and went to talk to the children, who were all very small, 2 or 3 years old.

Sherlock hung back, looking warily at the children, unsure what to do or say. For all his intelligence, he felt useless with kids.

Suddenly, he felt a little tug on the sleeve of his winter coat.

He looked down at once, gazing upon the face of a tiny pale boy with a mop of floppy curly hair and bright green eyes that took up most of his face.

Sherlock felt a smile twitch his lips as he crouched beside the boy. "Hello" he said softly.

"Hi" said the little boy "I like your coat. Did you just have biscuits? And coffee?"

Sherlock blinked at the boy, who was probably only three. "And how did you know that?"

The boy brushed crumbs off of Sherlock's damp sleeve, then pushed the sleeve up to Sherlock's nose. It smelled of the coffee Sherlock had spilled that morning when eating breakfast with John.

"Obvious" said the little boy.

Sherlock smiled, and extended a hand "I'm Sherlock"

"I'm Oliver" said the boy proudly, shaking with Sherlock.

Sherlock scooped the boy up, and called "John?"

John Watson didn't hear him over the giggling children, but when he looked over a moment later, he saw Sherlock holding Oliver, who was chattering away as he poked Sherlock's 15 minutes, the little boy had fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock walked over to John.

"Can we keep him?"


End file.
